“I trust him and you.”
Instantly his thoughts flew to Joyce, who was not a horsewoman. She could not share this tremendous pleasure with him. Nevertheless, his soul sang within him, as he vowed not to be too selfish about sport. Riding home, after this jolly day, he would square things with Margot.
The Master waved his hand. Hounds swung upon the line of the deer.
“Give ’em time, gentlemen!”
With a crash of music they were racing away. A good holding scent in purple heather! The big dog-hounds settled down to their work in rare style.
Lionel thrust his feet home into the stirrups, with a last injunction to Margot:
“Keep a fair twenty-five yards behind me. We’re in for a fast thing.”
Men threw away their cigars; women tossed their sandwiches into the heather. The Master tooted his horn.
“Forrard! Forrard!”
The Squire, and others of the heavy brigade, fetched a compass, hoping to save distance and horses. Lionel rode a little to the left of hounds.